I couldn't read Gohron's story. Eight inch thick paragraphs of horrible, horrible grammar kill my brain cells.
Intriguing.
I couldn't read Gohron's story. Eight inch thick paragraphs of horrible, horrible grammar kill my brain cells.
I think Lobo just wrote the great American novel...
Originally Posted by Brisco Bold
I realized this with a good majority of the intro and tried to make it better towards the end (there was a large block of downtime in between two parts). I rush too much when I write I guess, if I ever get serious about it again I'll have to fix up what I've already written rather then keep going with the story and work from there.
http://www.livejournal.com/users/tea...11.html#cutid1
Something I wrote. Needs editing and I'd like to expland it a bit but I thought I'd post what I have so far.
I thought you were gay.... i guess not.
In a dank dive, in a sallow room
Under jaundice lights, in a sanguine mood
In the curling smoke, ten cigarettes down
And the patrons choke, and the patrons drown
In the spirits they invoke and the ones they caste down
In a corner stall at the edge of sight
Where the shadows fall and the only light’s
The cigarette glow, like a candle lit
To keep a face hid and a promise kept,
The darkness shifts and a figure sits
And a house band drones as their pixie-boy sings
And the clash of the tones is a useless din
As the serpents writhe and the iron bell rings,
The collage of undead is a mescaline dream
In a flutter of wings she rises to leave
But the heft of her thoughts is chained to the seat
So she’s pulled back down and made to fight for it
And she’s fighting to breathe as she struggles to hit
The ghost that she wrestles and the years of its shit
On a slickened street in the pouring rain
Beneath a flickering lamp and a conscience weighed
Four stories up, craning to see
Four years of torture and a slate wiped clean
Four steps to the edge in four minutes flat
A perfect square hell where he is trapped
At the end of a corridor three unmarked doors
Hiding their heaven or shielding their horrors
The sound of steel drags on cinder block walls
As the sound of silence crashes down the dark hall
And he stands there still listening for the call
In the street below the cars form a line
With their headlights on in slow motion time
Like blood through a sieve or a spoon through an eye
And they’ve nowhere to go and no reason why
A memory like a mantra sung
Or a machine churns, or a cross is hung
When the hammer falls, or a child hums,
Or footsteps down a hall, or a heartbeat drums
****
ashes
ashes blow across her eyes
burning incense embers die
moonlight stretches like arched wings
silhouette against the sky
a murmured wish, a solemn lie
she plead to take it all away
begged for hope, given pain
and in the end they’re both the same
shadow shifts the silhouette
a bent note drifts upon a debt
the price paid to remain kept
is two-fold less what grief is spent
a shaken grin, a quickened glance
the folding hands a secret dance
whispered words, echoed chants
as darkness swallows circumstance
a walk upon a twisting road
bearing the weight the night holds
amidst youth, sorrow feels so old
can memories warm acts so cold?
lonely is a hollow tone
in muted songs, a metronome
of feelings gone
a deadened beat droning on
god is baubles upon which the wicked bet
sanctity futility bred from regret
demons doubt hatched from fears finally met
hell the ties that bind and gag you
choking your last breath
****
process
The blooms sway in the metal grey-
a machine for the botany,
where scissors descend and resend
to snip them into suffering;
a conduit blows recycled breeze
that smells stalely moldy,
so to sweeten it they extract
perfume from the glands
of rodents no one keep as pets-
a liquid screen projects its images,
propaganda and paraquet pandering,
the volume down, the lips to read,
imagining the message means:
Sit the watch, wait the cock,
guard the flock, wear the frock,
raise the scythe, cut the stalk,
bundle it and go to market…
Dreams of silo skylines stretching,
the flatfields housed are so depressing,
the Rainswitch hopes there’s not a glitch
or there’ll be no bundles for window dressing-
a button pressed is god in action
the pulleys pull and cogs retract and
open gates to fill up lakes
to soak the soil for propagation
through zygotic irritation;
a hand removed the job is done-
praise be to St. Irrigation
and to holy gene mutation
Push the button, wait the rain,
depress the button, wait again,
push the button, wait the blades,
depress the button, wait again,
push the button, rake the grain,
depress the button, wait again
The liquid screen projects its images,
propaganda and paraquet pandering,
the volume down the lips to read,
imagining the message means:
Sit the watch, wait the cock,
guard the flock, wear the frock,
raise the scythe, cut the stalk,
bundle it and go to market…
Put upon a track it’s taken,
ground it’s bleached and nutriated
and put in capsules for the masses,
sold in designer color bottles
labeled as the one quick fix;
the reaper is a button presser-
sworn to uphold the corporate credo,
‘Conversion by Subversion,’
the harvester of salvation;
and plebian pushers smile and sell,
and family dinner is popping a pill
Push the button, wait the rain,
depress the button, wait again,
push the button, wait the blades,
depress the button, wait again,
push the button, rake the grain,
depress the button, wait again
Sit the watch, wait the cock,
guard the flock, wear the frock,
raise the scythe, cut the stalk,
bundle it and go to market…
****
and now the flood waters recede and land we stand on seeps and sinks,
and now the air is filled with ash, and now we breathe behind a sash,
and the night is cold as winter though it is just mid july,
where’s the crowds who used to wander
down these streets now deserted, desolate and deteriorated
by the storm that we created, sucked into its unholy eye?
there was a child on that corner every morning half past nine
selling matches and cloth swatches and week old papers that would blow by
is she paper now blown about or incinerated as the sky?
the paper dolls all burned to cinder blown asunder on the wind
rise like angels dancing lightly, billowing as they ascend
will the sun stay hiding long? will the rain come every day
soaking ash and caking us in several layers of black and gray?
****
atrophy
The hate I push won’t satiate
The need I feel to break and shape
The boundaries that fall around you
Your situation dictates
You habituate barbiturates
They lock you into manic states
Of catatonic rage
A self-induced blue delusion
Lucid as your soiled bed
The visions flying through you
Aren’t sugarplums dancing in your head
They’re morphing nymphs with forehead glyphs
And sharpened teeth,
Wielding bone-saws in blackened claws
Raised to strike you dead
Six shades of sanity retreat
To catacombs deep within
And sanctity would be so sweet
But purgatory will always win
Even though you’ve disemboweled
The beast who feasts upon your skin
A twitch is all you’ve left to show
You’ve still got life enough to know
When to run and where to go
And who it is that pricks and sticks you
Pimping imps to keep you breathing
Long enough to steal your soul
And strong enough to dig the hole
Mesmerized, I watch and writhe
In the thin disguises that hide despise
And nine lives down a stitch in time
Saves the eight for suffocation or
Supplication in supplies
Of morphine and a needle’s eye
All the marrow’s disappeared
All the tissue’s been removed
All the muscles dwindle quickly
All the blood’s infested sickly
All the flesh will dissipate
And the mind will vegetate
Religion is an I.V.
A catheter therapy
The drip and piss a yin and yang
To feed and bleed the atrophy
Last edited by Scourge; 06 Jun 2005 at 12:58 PM.
Working on a psudeo sequal to the story above entitled "The Party". Will post when done.
I thought you were gay.... i guess not.
Something I'm in the process of working on... I haven't written poetry in a few years...
Empty Parking Lots at 4a.m.
The lights of the city diffuse in the a.m. dew
The car moves in slow motion, the radio whispering a long ago tune
The streets are all empty, the city is sleeping
Even the ghosts have all gone to bed
You pull into an empty parking lot
And stop ‘neath the skyline towering overhead
We’re still stealing glances, three years in a lifetime
Together, but what lies ahead?
You ask, “What are our chances?” and I stare
In the gloaming silent and sadly
The clock on the dash reads 4a.m.
Overhead a plane full of strangers flies, taking them all
Where their destinations lie, and the airplane so high
Is nearly silent in the black of the early morning sky
From there we walk down a boulevard downtown row
Of Townhomes where few amber lights shine through
Windows of other people’s lives
Back at your place, you’re glowing
In your bedroom, July Christmas lights of blue
And we lay without talking, but I’m holding you tightly
Afraid to let go too soon
I bought an Idiot's Guide to Creative Writing book from work recently. I have all sorts of ideas but feel that they suffer in the transition from my brain to the paper, hopefully this book will help a little.
I thought you were gay.... i guess not.
Here is a very short story I wrote after I got some antique clock:
An life-long enemy whom I had hoped had perished sent me a reminder... A cursed clock!
After I picked up the mystery package at the local mailoffice I took a shortcut across the church grounds. Bad move! Instantly, as I walked on the sacred dust beneath my feet, the still wrapped package started shaking and rattling about. At first I suspected there was some kind of animal inside of the package, then another more serious thought strikes me; "could this be another bomb?" (and old favorite trick of my enemy)... Then all of the sudden (!) the package breaks open and shatters hundres of glass shards in all directions! (luckily not my eyes!).
Stunned, my first instinct was to throw this package to the ground, but some strange force made me hold on to it, even while I in panic fled the churchgrounds! No sooner had I set foot back on the mainstreet as the package settled down again! I peeked inside an there it was; An old wooden, wormeaten clock?
"What happened?" - I still ask myself? Was this divine intervention? Did god with his fist try to destroy this unholy object? What luring power made me act against my common sense and bring this home, instead of throwing it in the gutter? Was I possessed by this curse already?! I have no clue! The clock now lies on my alternate workdesk near the panorama window. Package ripped open, the glass plate cover obliterated! Yet... It is still churning out some odd mechanical, and to be frank; quite diabolic sounds!
I am 31 years old, and for the first time since childhood, I fear the sunset.
nocturne:"I view terrorists as freedom fighters."
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